Support
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sibyl has an important conversation with her 14 year old son.


"There you are."

Sherlock was slouched over a book, shoulders hunched, trying to keep his body neatly tucked in on itself. He raised his head, marking his place carefully with one finger.

Sibyl smiled at him gently; at fourteen, he was in the awkward stage where his body was outpacing itself, leaving him gangly limbs and long fingers. His weight hadn't yet caught up to his height, although she suspected he'd never be anything but slim. She'd seen Mycroft go through the same discomfort, uncertain of how to treat a frame that seemed to change overnight.

To her it did indeed seem like overnight. He looked different each time he came home from school. Even when she saw him regularly during the midterm break, there was a daily change.

"Were you looking for me long?" he asked and Sibyl smiled, slipping into the chair across the table from him.

"No. George said he thought you were in here."

Sherlock nodded and marked his page before shutting the book. As always, he was surrounded by a pile of them, texts on chemistry and forensics and medicine.

"What is it?" he asked and Sibyl caught a hint of nervousness in his voice. He alternated between nervousness and defiance now, as if he was always expecting to be caught in the wrong and chastised. The thought made her frown; she could just recall what it was like to be that age, unsure of one's self, trying to forge an identity, feeling like an adult but treated like a child.

And he wouldn't say it, but she was certain he was being teased at school. He had few friends; unlike Mycroft, Sherlock's intelligence had separated him from the other children. He didn't have Mycroft's skill at political machinations and children his own age baffled and frustrated him. He preferred the company of adults – he always had – but Sibyl wondered if that would change when he himself became an adult. Would the impatience he felt now for his peers carry over? She worried it would and that he wouldn't develop the means of dealing with it that Mycroft had.

She wondered if he would develop a preference for wanting to be alone. He was already showing indications of doing so.

"I wanted to speak to you," she said and saw the instant defensive reaction as he pulled back and his expression hardened. Sibyl held up a hand patiently and saw him relax somewhat, but not enough.

"Sherlock, you are not in trouble," Sibyl sighed. She reached across the table and wrapped a hand over his. He tensed as though to withdraw for a moment, a typical adolescent reaction to parental affection. She squeezed his hand and he stilled but remained uncomfortable.

Sibyl was fairly certain he had probably done something to land him in trouble; he'd been doing that since he'd been old enough to walk at the very young age of eight months. From the moment he'd learned to move on his own, she had been two steps behind him, trying desperately to keep up and even more desperately to keep it from showing. She wondered often if he knew that he ran circles around her.

She suspected he did.

"Then what?" he asked, slouching down more in his chair but not moving his hand.

"Do you remember that the Leightons are coming for dinner tomorrow?" she asked.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes – not at her, but at the social obligations he so despised.

"Yes," he muttered. "I told you, I have to revise."

"And I told you that you can spare us two hours," Sibyl replied evenly. "Your brother will be coming up from London and I expect you to be there."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "I don't even know them."

"Because our family knows their family," Sibyl said simply. "They're bringing their daughter, Catherine. She's your age."

Sherlock's grey eyes slid away from her, a dark expression crossing his face. Sibyl released his hand and sat back slightly, keeping her careful gaze on him.

"I'm not interested in her," he snapped.

"I'm not asking you to be."

His eyes shot back to her, hard and bright.

"Then why bring it up, Mum? Why introduce me to their daughter?"

Sibyl sighed inwardly. They were getting to what she'd really come for, but she needed to approach it carefully.

"She's studying music," she replied. "She plays the violin. Quite well, I understand. She agreed to give a performance tomorrow and I thought you might be interested in hearing it."

"I'm not playing like some it's some party trick," Sherlock snapped.

"I'm not asking you to play at all. Nor am I trying to introduce you to Catherine in the hopes that you will find some sort of match with her. You're both fourteen. A century ago, perhaps we would have been looking at the prospect of marriage for you both, but not now. I hardly condone teenagers marrying and nor do I expect you to be interested in her."

"Good. I'm not. I don't care."

"Why don't you care, Sherlock?"

"I don't know her. She's probably dull and stupid. Everyone is dull and stupid. Except you."

"And Mycroft? And your father?"

He just glared, slouching down further, folding his arms over his thin chest.

"Mycroft is annoying and Father doesn't care."

"Your father loves you," Sibyl said plainly but firmly. _He just doesn't know what to do with you. Then again, neither do I most days_, she added privately_._ Sherlock huffed, glancing away again. He set his jaw, the muscles in his throat working.

"Catherine is your age and I would like you to give her a chance. If it helps, I imagine she'll find this as much of a tedious social obligation as you do."

"Girls like that kind of thing," Sherlock scoffed.

"I didn't," Sibyl said. His eyes darted back to her again, surprise taking the place of defensive anger in his features. It made him look warmer, brushing aside the cynical air he adopted to cover his uncertainty.

"I found it tedious and annoying," she said. "I despised when my parents forced me to attend their dinner parties and make small talk with people my own age, whom I found dull and rather vapid. Until I began to realize that not all of them were as stupid as I liked to pretend and many of them were equally uninterested in being there."

"If you know what it's like, then why make me go?" he demanded.

"Because I also see the value in it, now. I learned a lot during those interminable dinners. How to socialize, how to carry on conversation, how to read shifts in facial expression and body language, how to interact with my peers."

"I know all those things," Sherlock muttered, chewing on his lower lip.

Sibyl raised her eyebrows.

"That may be," she said, disagreeing silently but unwilling to start a row she could not win. "But it requires practice."

"Anyway, I don't _need_ anyone!" Sherlock snapped. "I have my books and school work! That's what I want!"

"Not everything can be work," Sibyl replied patiently. Her son glared at her, grey eyes blazing.

"Why not? It's what Father does!"

"Most of what your father does involves meetings and entertaining government officials or visiting dignitaries. It may be work, but it is almost entirely socializing. It would surprise you, I think, to learn how much time he spends talking with other people. And how good he is at it."

She could tell by the expression on his face that he didn't believe that, but it was true. She was always impressed by William's ability to draw people into conversation by seeming interested – and giving almost nothing away about himself. Mycroft had the same skill. Sherlock did not.

"No matter what sort of work you do, you will always have to interact with people," Sibyl pointed out.

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet with a disgusted noise and gave her another glare.

"I don't want to. I'm not interested."

Sibyl held his gaze for a moment then stood and crossed the room back to the doors, which she pushed shut gently. She deliberately did not lock them; it would only make her son feel trapped. She turned away and approached him again, leaving an open path between him and the doors, making it very clear from her stance that he was not being prevented from leaving.

Sibyl rested her weight on the back of a low chair and watched her youngest child who was watching her suspiciously in return, expression bright but closed.

"What are you interested in then?" she asked.

"Science. Chemistry. Forensics. Physics. Why things happen the way they do."

Sibyl nodded, unsurprised. She had read chemistry at university and both her children had shown a strong aptitude for and interest in it.

"Allow me to rephrase that. In whom are you interested?"

Sherlock stared at her for a moment.

"What?" he demanded, flinging his arms wide. "What? Why do I have to be interested in anyone, Mum? Why is everyone always so – so insistent on that? Why is it always girls, girls, girls? Why do you want me to care about Catherine Leighton? Why can't there be more interesting things in life? I don't _care_ about girls!"

As soon as he said it, he cut himself off abruptly and took a step back, watching her with a mixture anger and fear that made her heart break. Sibyl steadied herself; it would not help for him to pick up on anything he could misinterpret as disapproval.

"If you are not interested in girls, are you interested in boys?" she asked.

"What?" he spat.

Sibyl stood, keeping her stance easy.

"What? No! Of course not!" he snapped, his grey eyes sliding away from hers. "That sort of thing is–"

"Is what, Sherlock?" she asked gently.

"Nothing," he shot back. "It's nothing. Why would you ask me that?"

She stepped toward him and he stepped back, eyes hard, not quite masking fear. Sibyl's heart hardened; she had never said anything against this to him and she was certain William hadn't either. Someone had put the idea in his head that this was wrong.

"Do you know your father's cousin Imogen has had the same partner for – oh, twenty years now. They can't marry because her partner is also a woman, but that's almost the same length of time your father and I have been married."

"So?" Sherlock demanded. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Do you think it's wrong that they love each other?"

He shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes, and Sibyl's frown deepened. She stepped toward him again and this time, he didn't back away.

"Because I'm not interested in wasting my time on girls, you think I'm – I'm like that?"

"Do you mean, because you are not interested in girls, do I think you're gay?"

Sherlock flinched and withdrew without moving, pulling himself away slightly, keeping his gaze from her.

"Do you imagine if you were, I would be upset? That this would somehow change what I thought of you?"

"I am not!" he shouted, rounding on her. "I'm not, Mum! That sort of thing– it's wicked and disgusting!"

Sibyl froze.

"What?" she said softly, then found her voice again, cutting him off as he started to speak. "Those are _not_ my son's words, Sherlock, because no one in your family would ever have put them in your head and if I find any of the staff have said that, they will be looking for a new position by morning. _Who told you that?_"

He stared at her, grey eyes wide, expression torn between anguish and fear that he was going to be punished.

"Hatred and intolerance, those are wicked and disgusting," she said, trying to keep her voice calm despite the anger that gripped her heart. "Judging someone based on whom he or she loves, that is wicked and disgusting. Finding fault with an entire group of people based on a single characteristic – _that_ is wicked and disgusting, Sherlock. Who told you this?"

He hesitated and Sibyl bit down on demanding again, certain it would cause him to shut down. She could tell he thought she was angry with him. She was fairly sure she was going to find the culprit and teach him or her a new meaning for pain. If someone had made her son hate himself, there would be retribution.

"The boys at school. They say– they say it's disgusting. And sissy."

Sibyl raised her eyebrows.

"And you listen to the boys at school since when?" she asked, unable to stop herself from doing so. It was almost amusing, but the fear and uncertainty in Sherlock's face made her angrier.

"And Mr. Morrison. He says its unnatural. Because– because they– because _we_ can't have children." He stopped, watching her with raw distress, as if he could not quite believe he'd said it out loud.

Sibyl crossed the room without thinking and pulled him into a hug, heedless of his tension. She held on tightly until he began to relax and then kept holding on. Desperately, Sibyl tried to remember what subject Mr. Morrison taught – biology, she thought.

He was going to lose his job if she had any say in the matter.

"Oh, my boy," she whispered, pulling away and cupping his face in her hands. Her heart twisted when she saw the unshed tears in his grey eyes, swimming over his dark lashes. "Oh, my beautiful boy." She pulled him down and pressed a kiss against his forehead and heard him take a deep, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry, Mum," he whispered, voice wavering. "I'm sorry."

"No," Sibyl insisted. "No, Sherlock, no you are not sorry. You will never be sorry about this, do you understand?" He blinked, tears slipping down his cheeks. "Someone told you this was wrong but _he_ is wrong. There is nothing unnatural about this. There is nothing wicked or disgusting. There is nothing _wrong_ with it, Sherlock."

"But–"

"No buts. This is who you are. Do you think I would be disappointed in you because you prefer men to women? Do you think I could judge you based on whom you chose to love? Do you think it matters to me?"

He hesitated then nodded and Sibyl felt her heart break at the idea that her son thought this would make a difference to her.

She wiped away a tear and the action seemed to shatter some wall within him. He bit his lip against the sob that wracked his thin frame, against the tears that coursed down his pale cheeks. Sibyl bundled him to her again, shocked at how young and frail he felt in her arms despite the height difference. She kissed his temple and rocked him gently, feeling his arms wrap around her waist.

"How long have you known?"

"Since–" he drew a deep, shaky breath. "Since I was ten."

Sibyl closed her eyes, glad he couldn't see her do so. _Four years_, she thought. He'd been carrying it four years. All on his own.

"And when did Mr. Morrison say this to you?"

He shook his head and Sibyl drew away slightly, holding his face again. He pursed his lips, eyes dropping from her gaze.

"Not to me," he muttered. "There was– three years ago there were two older boys who were– together."

"Dating," Sibyl said. Sherlock managed a nod.

"I was helping Mr. Rushcliff clean some equipment in the chemistry lab. I was putting things away in the supply closet. Mr. Morrison came in and was speaking to Mr. Rushcliff about it."

"What did Mr. Rushcliff say?"

"Not to talk about it there, but Mr. Morrison didn't listen."

And had subjected her eleven year old son to his bigotry and hatred. The touch of panic in Sherlock's expression told her he'd seen the anger in hers. Sibyl smoothed his hair from his brow and shook her head.

"There will always be narrow-minded, miserable people who hate what they don't understand. They are cowards who are perhaps worth your pity, nothing more. They will always be beneath you, Sherlock."

He met her gaze with tear-blurred eyes, his expression coloured with uncertainty and a desperate need to believe her.

"You are perfect as you are," Sibyl assured him. "If you're interested in men, that is fine with me. Sherlock – whomever you chose to love will be a very lucky man indeed."

"But what if I don't want– anyone?"

"Then that's fine, too," Sibyl assured him. "It's your decision. Whatever you decide to do, you should be proud of it. And we _will_ stand behind you."

He shook his head slightly, another tear tracking down his cheek.

"What about Father? And Mycroft?"

"I can't imagine your brother being bothered one way or another about it – I think he'd find it not worth his time." At this, her son managed a ghost of a smile. "And your father will be fine with it."

"How– how do you know?"

"Because I know him. He _has_ been my husband for twenty-three years, Sherlock. And he's remained close with Imogen." She hoped Sherlock would not point out that there was sometimes a different standard for women, but he was too young to really know that. And William would not be bothered by it. Not if she had anything to say about it.

"What about the boys at school?"

"It's up to you. If you feel they should know, tell them. If you feel they should not, don't. It's no one's business but your own unless you choose to make it so. And I can't imagine you're the only one."

Sherlock looked surprised and Sibyl gave him another brief hug.

"Everyone has something they're uncertain about. Especially people your age. I know it may not seem that way, but it's true. You are not the only one worried about something. You may have to be stronger about this than you'd like, because people are prejudiced and short-sighted. But you don't have to be strong on your own, Sherlock. Not with this. Not ever again. We will be there with you."

* * *

><p>She told William as they were getting ready for bed that evening. Her husband sighed, hung up his suit jacket, and turned to face her.<p>

Sibyl waited, raising her eyebrows, an unexpected flash of defensiveness flaring in her. She rarely fought with William but she would not let this pass if he took issue with it.

"I'm not surprised," he admitted. "Although I am not entirely happy about the prejudices he will face. It cannot be easy. It's been a century since the Wilde Trial, Sibyl, and yet sometimes I think we've barely progressed."

"You're not upset then."

"I'm more relieved than anything – I must admit I did worry about him attracting too many young ladies and quite frankly, getting someone pregnant."

Sibyl covered her mouth, failing to contain her startled laugh. It was so rare to hear William say something so pointed. His eyes sparkled in their lamplit room and she pursed her lips, trying to silence her laughter, unable to keep her shoulders from shaking.

"But upset at him? No. He is who he is and if we considered this a problem, we'd be poorly equipped to deal with everything else he has thrown or ever will throw at us."

Sibyl sighed, her laughter dissipating.

"Too true," she murmured.

"You'll deal with this absurd teacher, I imagine?"

"Oh, yes."

William smiled and there was a hint of menace to it which she had almost never seen but which she recognized meant someone was going to face some serious troubles.

"Good," he said. "I have several friends in the government who would be more than happy to provide some assistance with that."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This is a touchy subject in which I have no personal experience, so I hope I did all right and didn't offend anyone. I do not own, nor do I profit from.


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